Silvertip Mountain don't forget from whence you came

She is glad she had the sense to withdraw before Phocion could issue an invitation before; now clearheaded, she feels she can accept it. Before she speaks she looks to Phocion's friend, and recognition flickers briefly in her canny yellow gaze. Oh! Such small but wondrous things, coincidences.

"I will stay," Poet answers, reaching to gently touch her nose to Phocion's cheek. Briefly she thinks of their night beneath the blood moon, and wonders what work means to him. Does he expect religious devotion from her? That she could not provide: she indulges his beliefs, having been on the other side, but she does not think she is capable of accepting faith again.

... But for now she does not bring it up, not when there is so much hope and joy in the air. And Cortland needs attention. Poet nods and turns towards the boy, reading his expression for signs of recognition. "Cortland," she says, glancing between them, and steps slightly closer. "May I take a look at your paw? Were you able to find any yarrow or garlic?" The second question is addressed to the priest; she's some small amount of garlic saved nearby, but a little extra never hurts if his paw truly is infected.